“Maybe,” Abby said slowly, “because for now, this is our life.”
Friday, November 28, 1879
The McKennas stood around, stamping their feet and hugging themselves against the cold, as they watched David tie his bedroll onto the saddle, then shove his rifle into its scabbard. David’s father handed him a sack of food, which he stuffed into one side of his saddlebags.
Finally, David turned. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
His father came forward and shook hands. “Ah’ll be oot thare watchin’ fur ya,” he said. “We ’ope to ’ave the road finished all the way ta Fifty Mile Spring by the time yur back.”
David nodded and hugged him. “Do you know,” he whispered, “how glad I am that we’re here together, Dad? I’m glad the Lord decided England could do without you.”
His father’s head reared back slightly. “What?” he whispered into David’s ear. “Did Ah joost ’ear me own son give credit ta the Lord fur sumthin’?”
David grinned. “Sorry. A slip of the tongue.”
“Or of the ’eart,” his father responded, letting him go and stepping back.
Patrick came forward. “Godspeed, David.” They shook hands, then also embraced. In turn, David hugged Billy Joe, shook hands with Abby and Molly, then went to shake hands with Sarah. She slapped his hand away and threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “Go safely, David. We’ll be praying for you. For all of you.”
“Thank you. And thank you for yesterday. It was wonderful to just relax and forget about all of this for a day.”
Finally, he shook hands with Carl, who again offered David his field glasses. When David thanked him, he said, “They’re yours, David. You have more use for them than I do.”
Then, as if by unspoken assent, the others moved away, leaving only Molly standing beside him. David searched her face, then grinned ruefully. “Seems like the Lord heard about this deal you and I made before we left, and is doing His part to make it easier on us.”
Her head snapped up. “Did Abby talk to you?”
He was genuinely surprised. “About what?”
She shook her head, then gave him a bright smile. “Nothing.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. “Maybe when you get back we can have some time to talk?” It was said wistfully, and more as a question than a statement.
“I would like that. Maybe even laugh a little again.”
She forced a wide smile. “I would like that a lot.” She touched his arm briefly, then stepped back. “Godspeed, David.”
He swung up in the saddle. Then he remembered something. Removing a glove and fishing in his shirt pocket, he drew out a piece of folded paper and handed it down to her.
“What’s this?” she said as she opened it. Then her eyes widened. What was written there was very short. Two words and a number. Mizpah. Genesis 31:49. She looked up, puzzled now. “What does it say?”
He lifted a hand. “Gotta go. Good-bye, Molly.” And he rode off.
She went straight to the wagon, found her bag, and dug out her Bible. Glancing at the paper again, she turned to Genesis. As she read the verse in the dim light, she began to cry, but she was smiling through her tears. She wiped at her eyes and read it again. And Mizpah, for he said, The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.
Wednesday, December 3, 1879
Molly McKenna listened to the soft drumming of the rain on the roof of the tent of Ben and Hyrum Perkins, tuning out the chatter of the women around her. Her thoughts were on David. Where was he in weather like this? She knew they had not taken tents with them, so when the weather turned gray and cold, as it was today, did the group try to find shelter until the rain passed, or did they simply go on exploring? She was pretty sure she knew the answer to that.
She suppressed a yawn that quickly turned into a sigh. This was the sixth day since they had left. When David had gone with the previous group, they had taken ten days. Four more days. At least! She sighed again and looked around.
They were having a “hens’ day out,” as Mary Ann Perkins called it. Ben and Hy Perkins were gone building roads, so she and Hyrum’s wife, Rachel, had dug out some of the famous Perkins’ Pottawattamie plum preserves2 and invited some of the other “widows” over for nibbles.
John Draper and Patrick McKenna were also on the construction gang and wouldn’t return until Friday or Saturday, so Abby, Molly, and their mother were invited. Anna Maria Decker’s husband, Jim, was gone for the day rounding up loose stock. Though he had previous experience as a scout, his wife was now eight and a half months along in her pregnancy, and Silas had told him to stay nearby. But she was alone for the day, and the Perkins women had decided she also needed some cheer on this otherwise lonely and dreary day. Ben and Mary Ann’s nine-year-old daughter was also there.
The preserves were gone. Only a few crumbs remained of the loaf of bread, and the butter tin was nearly empty. Little Mary Jane was licking the last of the butter and sticky preserves from her fingers. The mood was bright and they had laughed a lot. Molly had been part of that, but in the last few minutes, concern for David had snuck up on her and darkened her mood.
Then she saw Abby give her a quizzical look. “Are you all right?” the look was saying. Molly forced a quick smile and nodded. She was. If she had to be out in the middle of this vast emptiness; if she had to be sitting in a tent on a cold, rainy day, not knowing what life had in store for them; if she had to do all of that, then being with these sisters was the best way to do it.
Abby was clearly not satisfied. She shot Molly another look, then turned to Mary Ann Perkins. “Mary Ann, I have a question.”
“All right.”
“Somewhere along the way, and I can’t remember who it was now, someone told us that you and that delightful husband of yours had an unusual courtship. Is that true?”
“Aye,” she said in her rich Welsh accent. “But unusual be mooch too soft a word.”
“Tell us about it,” Anna Decker said.
“Oh, yes,” her daughter cried, “tell them, Mama. I love this story.”
The others joined in chorus, urging her to do the same. Molly glanced sharply at her sister, knowing Abby had asked the question for her benefit. But she always loved to hear about the courting experiences of others, and so she smiled her encouragement too.
The older woman smoothed her skirts for a moment, then finally bobbed her head. “All right. But let me give you some brief background on Ben and Hyrum’s family. That will give more significance to my story.”
They all settled back to listen.
“Ben’s parents were baptized inta the Church in Wales in the early eighteen forties. Ta say that Ben cumes frum a large fam’ly would be a wee bit of an understatement. Ben’s mother eventually gave birth to twenty-one children, none of them twins.”
“Whoa!” Anna Decker exclaimed. “This is only my fourth. Please don’t tell me I have to do this seventeen more times.” The look of mock horror sent the others into soft giggles.
“Ben’s father was a coal miner, but when the bosses learned ’e was a Mormon, they fired ’im. The fam’ly was immediately ploonged inta poverty an’ ended up in the poor hoose fur over a year. But eventually, they were released. Ben and Hyrum both started in the mines as young boys.”
Molly felt a pang of guilt. Ben Perkins was one of the most delightful men she knew—jovial, witty, entertaining, always smiling, forever teasing or cracking jokes. Who would have guessed his early childhood had been that hard?
“Ben stayed in the mines fur anuther twenty years, eventually becomin’ a blaster.”
“Is that when they came to America?” Sarah asked.
“Yes. Eighteen sixty-seven. Ben and five other siblings decided they wuld come ta America ta earn enuff money ta send back for the rest of the fam’ly.” She stopped, a slow, secretive smile softening the corners of her mouth.
“What?” Abby teased. “What were you thinking right then?”
&nb
sp; Mary Ann laughed, sounding like a young girl. “Ah was thinkin’ aboot the day they left fur America. Some of their fam’ly an’ close friends came ta bid them farewell. Ah was thare too.” Her eyes were soft with the memories now.
“Anyway, thare we were, sayin’ gud-bye ta ’em, wund’rin’ if we’d ever see them again, me bawlin’ me eyes oot because Ah were so sad ta see ’em leavin’. Suddenly, Ah saw Ben standin’ there in front of me, joost lookin’ at me all funny-like.”
“Guess what Daddy said?” Mary Jane blurted, unable to stand it any longer.
“Let me tell it,” her mother chided. And Molly saw that Mary Ann had a little bit of the entertainer in her, just like her husband. “Finally, joost about as ’e was ta bust ’is buttons wit embarrassment, ’e looked me reet in the eye an’ said, ‘Mary Jane Williams, when Ah ’ave made enuff ta send fur the rest of me fam’ly, if Ah send money ta ya, wud ya come wit them?’”
“Just like that?” Molly cried.
“Joost like that.” She laughed merrily now. “Ah looked up, wiped me eyes, an’ said Ah wud. And that was the full extent of our courtship. Two years later ’e sent the money an’ Ah came ta America wit the rest of their fam’ly. Shortly after Ah arrived in Salt Lake, Ben an’ me wur married in the Endowment House fur time an’ fur all eternity.”3
“What a wonderful story,” Anna Decker said.
“Just like in the fairy tales,” Abby observed. “And it all ended happily ever after.”
Molly reached out and touched her hand. “It is a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing it.”
As the women gathered in around Mary Ann, plying her with questions and sharing some of their own courtship stories, Abby scooted closer to Molly. “What did you think of that?”
“You asked her that for my benefit, didn’t you?”
She gave her a mocking look. “I didn’t know what she was going to say.”
“But you hoped for something to cheer me up, didn’t you.”
“I was looking for something to cheer us all up,” Abby shot right back. Then she smiled. “So did it work?”
Begrudgingly Molly nodded. “It did. It is an amazing story.”
“And even though they didn’t get to spend any time together before they were married, look how happy they are now.”
Molly just shook her head. “You never give up, do you?”
“Not when it’s my sister,” Abby said. Then she became very serious. “So the way I figure it, you and David still have another eighteen months of separation before—ow!”
Molly had grabbed her arm and pinched it hard.
The others turned, giving them both questioning looks. Molly was pure innocence. “She slipped,” she explained.
Then, as Abby started to protest, they all turned. Outside, a man was yelling. They heard pounding footsteps. When he shouted again, all but Anna Decker leaped to their feet. Mary Ann threw back the flap of the tent as a man ran by. “What is it?” she called.
He turned. “They’re back. Platte Lyman and the men are back.”
Notes
^1. According to tradition, the first Thanksgiving was held by the early settlers in America to give thanks for their safe arrival and a bounteous crop. President Abraham Lincoln asked Congress to set aside the last Thursday of November as the official day to celebrate Thanksgiving, which custom has been observed since that time.
^2. Pottawattamie plum preserves were made by cooking the plums until they formed a syrup. This was run through a colander to remove the stones and skins; then the syrup was poured onto plates and put in the sun to harden and dry. The pancake-like substance could then be stacked up in piles and wrapped in paper or cloth. When wanted for use, the cakes were broken into small pieces, water and sugar were added, and, with a little further cooking, a delicious jam was obtained (see “Life Sketch of Mary Jane Wilson,” 8).
^3. This account of Ben Perkins’s early life and his marriage to Mary Ann Williams also comes from their daughter’s life history (ibid., 1–2, 4).
Chapter 53
Wednesday, December 3, 1879
“Brethren!”
Instantly the group crowded into Silas Smith’s tent stopped talking, and all turned to look at their leader. This was a larger tent, shared by Silas and his extended family, but now the tent was crowded with men. Silas was seated on a small stool behind a collapsible table near the tent’s door. He was flanked on both sides by Platte Lyman and Jens Nielson, both of whom were standing. The thirteen men who had just returned sat on boxes and trunks that lined the outer walls of the tent. David was one of those, sitting off in one corner with Joe Nielson, Kumen Jones, and George Hobbs.
“Brethren,” Silas said again, his face grave and lined with concern, “we are most grateful for your speedy return. We are badly in need of a decision. As you probably have sensed since returning this afternoon, the company’s morale is very low. I fear that a spirit of pessimism now permeates the camp. That is understandable. These people have left their homes, sold their businesses, and bid farewell to family and friends, fully expecting that by now we would be—or at least, soon would be—at our destination. Instead, we languish here in the desert, not going backward, but neither moving forward.”
His head came up, and his voice filled with sudden determination. “We cannot live with that indecision any longer. We must decide what we are going to do, and we must decide it now.”
No one spoke, but heads were bobbing up and down solemnly all around.
“Let us begin with a report from Brother Lyman concerning the explorations just completed.” He half turned, motioning to his counselor. “Platte, the time is yours.”
Platte took one step forward, nodded briefly at Silas, then turned to face the group. David noticed once again what a striking man he was. He was about the same height as David, just under six feet tall, and solidly built. But there was no fat on him, and David had seen for himself the strength in his arms and hands. After being with him full time now for over a week, David had nothing but the highest respect for the man and his capabilities.
“Thank you, President Smith,” he began. “I know there is much to discuss, so I shall be brief. I invite my brethren who were with me to add comments as they see fit.” He took a quick breath and continued. “As you know, we left here last Friday morning. We drove ten miles, over some of the roughest country I have ever seen, and camped that night at Fifty Mile Spring. The next day we continued, driving through a lot of sand and over sandstone hills to the Hole in the Rock. After a brief stop to look that over, we continued—”
“Pardon me, Brother Platte,” Silas broke in, “but I should like to ask your opinion. Now that you have seen the Hole, do you agree that it is possible to build a wagon road down through it?”
Platte thought on that for a moment, then nodded. “It will take a lot of work. Quite a bit of blasting, but yes, I think it is possible.”
“Thank you. Go on.”
“We continued on about two miles upstream, where we lowered our boat down to the river. By the way, there is a large, flat area about halfway down there that we called Jackass Flat. It is about a hundred acres and has some excellent grazing. The path is quite steep and precipitous, but we took our animals down it, and with some work believe it could be improved enough to take others.”
“Goot,” Bishop Nielson said. “Vee need to keep some teams closer to de Hole.”
“Once we had the boat down,” Platte went on, “after supper and a little rest, we loaded our luggage into the boat and rowed it downstream about a mile to where we tied up. We camped directly across the river from the Hole. By the way, the river at that point is about three hundred fifty feet across. The current is sluggish, the water somewhat milky in color, but pleasant tasting. Building a ferry there should allow easy crossing, especially now at low water.”
“The next morning, some of us went downriver, hoping to reach the San Juan River, then row upstream to find a way out in that direction. But before we even
reached the San Juan, we could hear a roar of water. There were bad rapids, and we didn’t dare risk going farther.”
He sighed. David could see in his face the same weariness and discouragement they were all feeling right now.
“So we returned to our camp. We left two men there with the boat, and the rest of us loaded up blankets and food on our backs and started looking for a way up to the eastern bluffs. We found a smooth, open canyon with plenty of water, wood, and grass.”
“Brother Collett and I called that Cottonwood Canyon when we were there before,” Bishop Schow said. “It would make an excellent campsite.”
“Yes, definitely,” Platte agreed. “Anyway, we followed that up through the bluffs until we came to some very steep, sandstone hills. These continued all the way to the summit, which is about six miles from the river. Up on top we found plenty of water in potholes and rock tanks.”
He hesitated, one hand pulling at his beard. David knew what was coming. They had talked of little else on their return trip to camp.
“Next morning—that would be Monday, day before yesterday—we continued east, looking for a possible route. Very quickly we found the country so rough and broken up, and so badly cut in two by deep gorges of solid rock, that we gave up all hope of a road being made through there.”
Silas Smith was staring at his counselor in great dismay. “Say that again, please,” he said.
Platte exhaled slowly. “We found the country so badly broken up and cut through with impassable gorges, that we gave up all hope of making a road through there.”
“But . . .” Jens Nielson blurted. Then he caught himself, and clamped his mouth shut. He would not speak before his leader had spoken.
“We made one other excursion down a side canyon, but found nothing that way either. So we returned to the river, crossed over, and hauled the boat back up to Jackass Flat. We then returned here as quickly as we could.”
He started to step back, then stopped. “In summary, I must say that the country on that side of the river is nothing but hills and mountains made up almost entirely of solid rock, cut through by gulches that are altogether precipitous and impassable. It is certainly the worst country I ever saw.”
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